


Stepping Up

by Bunnywest



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Deliberate Baby Acquisition, Domestic Fluff, Don't go looking for plot, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Kid Fic, M/M, Parent Peter Hale, Parent Stiles Stilinski, Serious Illness, Sick Stiles Stilinski, Surrogacy, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski, because you'll be sorely disappointed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-06 13:59:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19064101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest
Summary: When Peter and Stiles came back from their honeymoon and settled into everyday life, they were happy. Gloriously, blissfully, happy. Almost perfectly happy. Peter wouldn’t have dreamed of asking for more, honestly. He already had so much more than he’d ever hoped for.Except.Except in the laundry room there was a drawer where they kept odds and ends – rolls of tape, batteries, paperclips, old greeting cards.And a single yellow baby’s sock.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DiscontentedWinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscontentedWinter/gifts).



> This is the follow up to [Baby Steps](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18955006)
> 
> I lay the blame for this squarely at the feet of [DiscontentedWinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscontentedWinter/pseuds/DiscontentedWinter) because she asked for a sequel, and then other people followed her terrible example, and now you all have to contend with this pile of plotless mush.  
> I'm not sure if it's better or worse that there's going to be another chapter of this twaddle at some stage.

 

 

“I’ve changed my mind. Whose stupid idea was this?” Stiles folds his arms across his chest and makes no move to unbuckle his seatbelt.

Peter chuckles - half amusement, half exasperation. “It was your idea, remember? And it’s too late to back out now.”

“But I don’t wanna,” Stiles whines. Peter knows its just tiredness and nerves, so he leans over from the driver’s seat and wraps an arm around Stiles’s shoulders.

“Liar,” he chides softly. “You’ve been waiting for this day and we both know it. Now get out of the car, Stiles. You’re going to be a father.”

“ _You’re_ going to be a father,” Stiles counters. “I’m going to be your attractive younger husband.”

Peter shakes his head fondly. “Whatever you say, sweetheart. Shall we go and meet our son?”

 

* * *

 

 

Their surrogate has been a dream, honestly. Everything about this process has been far easier than Peter could have hoped, if he’d ever dared hope for this at all. For all his last-minute nerves and dragging of feet, Stiles was the driving force behind it all, and Peter’s more grateful than he could ever say.

Actually, Stiles has become a driving force in Peter’s life, full stop. When Peter was left holding the baby, so to speak, the last thing he expected was for the sheriff’s twentysomething son to become his savior. But Stiles turned up, stepped up, and showed a maturity that Peter wasn’t expecting, and it made Peter look at him a little differently, made his previously idle attraction deepen into something more concrete, a deep _want._ The glimpse of life with Stiles had been enough to whet his appetite for more, and Peter hadn’t known what to do with that.

It turned out he didn’t have to do anything with it, because Stiles had beat him to the punch, asking him on a date. It’s been a whirlwind eighteen months since then, and if they took their time getting to that point, everything since has been full steam ahead.

They managed two (okay, one and a half) dates before falling into bed together, desperate and hungry for each other, and they haven’t looked back. Peter found himself unable to even contemplate showing restraint, and on the nights Stiles went home, Peter would end up climbing in his window at midnight when he realised he wasn’t going to be able to sleep alone.

His wolf begged and whined every time Stiles left  - _mine, want, bring him back_ – and every time, Peter gave into it. It was almost frightening, the intensity of Peter’s desire. The feeling must have been mutual, because when he’d half-jokingly (not jokingly, completely seriously)  said, “You know, you could move in with me,” Stiles had beamed at him, and hadn’t hesitated to say yes.

When Stiles approached his father, with the news, John’s only response was “For the love of god yes, if it means he’ll stop sneaking into your room in full view of the neighbors. Do you know how many calls I’ve fielded from Mrs Jenkins over the road? Every damned time Peter turns up, she’s on the phone. Did I know there’s a strange man climbing in my son’s window at night? Did I know she can see him kissing my son? Here, let me get you some packing boxes.”

Once he’d moved in, it had been Stiles who, three months later, after spending time on the phone to some government body, had huffed out, “My last name is _such_ a pain in the ass. Can’t I just change it to yours?”

It had taken Peter a second, but he’d finally caught on. “Well you could, but I’m not seeing a ring, so how am I meant to take your proposal seriously?”

The last thing he’d expected was for Stiles to actually _have_ a ring tucked into his pants pocket, or for him to drop to one knee, confessing that he’d been trying to ask for weeks, because life without Peter was unimaginable. Peter’s answer was, of course, a resounding yes.

They celebrated by having such vigorous sex that Stiles had rolled over once too often afterwards, still in a daze, fallen off the end of the bed, and hit the floor headfirst. He’d had to take a couple of days off work with suspected concussion, and when John heard about it, he’d just shaken his head. “Don’t even wanna know, kid.”

The wedding itself was a small affair, but the honeymoon was completely over the top – a month in Europe spent at all the best hotels, because Peter wasn’t going to settle for anything less when it came to the love of his life.  Stiles insisted they make love every time they crossed a border into a new country, and that was a plan Peter could get behind. It turned out there were lots of tiny countries he hadn’t ever been to in Europe, and Stiles arranged a day trip to all of them, even if it was only to cross the border, check into a hotel, and leave a couple of hours later.

Their passports have more stamps than a post office.

And when they came home and settled into everyday life, they were _happy._ Gloriously, blissfully, happy. Almost perfectly happy. Peter wouldn’t have dreamed of asking for more, honestly. He already had so much more than he’d ever hoped for.

Except.

Except in the laundry room there was a drawer where they kept odds and ends – rolls of tape, batteries, paperclips, old greeting cards.

And a single yellow baby’s sock.

Peter couldn’t make himself throw it out. He’d tried, but he just couldn’t do it. It was a reminder of the closest he’d come to having children of his own, and call him a sentimental fool, but he treasured those memories. Sometimes he’d just hold the thing, and think about waking with the weight of a baby in his arms, and how he missed it.

Stiles had never mentioned having kids, and since he was hardly shy about telling Peter what he wanted normally, Peter felt he could safely assume it wasn’t something Stiles was interested in.  So it was a shock to walk into the laundry one day a mere few months into their marriage, to find Stiles holding the sock and turning it over in his hand. “You still have this?” he’d asked.

“It’s just a souvenir, sweetheart. It’s silly,” Peter had said, heart beating faster. Surely Stiles wasn’t going to mock him, not for this?

But instead, Stiles had turned, biting his lip. “Does this mean that you want kids? And if it’s yes, is it too soon to say I want that too? Little werewolf babies with you?”

All Peter’s breath had left him in a rush, and he’d responded by dragging Stiles into a passionate kiss, only stopping to rasp out, “You mean it?”

 Stiles had just grinned and nodded, and then they hadn’t talked anymore because Peter had _needed_ to carry Stiles up to bed and show him exactly how much he approved of the idea.

At least Stiles hadn’t gotten a concussion this time.

 

* * *

 

 

Adoption, it had turned out, was akin to winning the lottery – technically possible, but also pretty damned unlikely, especially in their case. Stiles’s age, the short amount of time they’d been together, the fact they were a same sex couple, and Peter’s questionable history were all working against them. Stiles had spent a solid month researching every avenue available before he’d turned to Peter one night and said, “So, I talked to Deaton.”

Peter had arched one eyebrow as he wondered what the hell Stiles had done now. “Sweetheart, if the words magical male pregnancy are about to leave your mouth, you can think again.”

Stiles had snorted. “Yeah, no. I’m keeping my girlish figure, thanks. But I did ask him about finding a surrogate, because he has contacts and we’re gonna need it to be a werewolf, since obviously the kid’s going to be yours. And he says he knows someone who’d be willing to help.”

Peter had gaped at him, before getting out “What?”

“Surrogacy. It’s our best chance. So I arranged a meeting. Is that okay?”

Peter had sat down heavily on the nearest chair while he tried to absorb the fact that his wonderful, clever, determined husband had found a way to make this happen.

Peter could have a whole _drawer_ full of socks, and there would be a pair of tiny feet to go inside them.

Stiles, of course, took his silence the wrong way. “If you don’t want a surrogate I get it, but I just thought, if we adopt we’ll be waiting years, and I’ve never been very patient, you know that. I can tell Deaton we’ve changed our mind.”

“No,” Peter had rushed to say. “No, it’s – Stiles, you can’t possibly know what this means to me, that we might get to have a family.” Peter had had to take a moment, hastily wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. As he did so, something occurred to him, something Stiles had slipped into the conversation. “Do I get any say in who the father is? Because it could just as easily be you. We should talk about it, at least. “

The intensity of Stiles’s response had shocked him. “Nope. No way, no how. Werewolf baby or no baby at all.” Stiles had folded his arms across his chest and jutted his chin out, as though expecting Peter to argue.

Peter hadn’t argued – he loved the idea being a father. He had been curious, though. “If that’s your choice it’s fine, sweetheart. But care to tell me why?”

Stiles had sat across the table from him and done just that. He’d confessed that he couldn’t stand the thought of any child he had inheriting his mom’s dementia, not to mention his ADHD, and Peter could understand that. And he’d admitted that the thought of a child who was a little more durable had its appeal. “I’m clumsy on a good day,” Stiles had said. ”I break at least one coffee mug a week. If we’re having a baby, I want one that can _bounce_.”

Hearing those words, _having a baby,_ spoken so casually, like it was no big deal, had Peter blinking rapidly again. He gathered himself, and managed to respond drily with, “I’d prefer it if you tried not to drop our offspring, just so you know,” and Stiles had thrown back his head and laughed.

They talked about it some more, and once Peter had determined that Stiles really and truly had no problem with using a surrogate, and honestly didn’t care if his DNA was involved or not, they’d agreed to go ahead.

Deaton, for possibly the first time ever, had been remarkably open and cooperative, and there followed a flurry of activity that resulted, only days later, in a meeting with Lorna, a  werewolf whose parents had been friends of the Hale pack, and who Peter vaguely remembered meeting as a teen.  Stiles had liked her immediately, and it hadn’t escaped either of their notice that with her pale complexion, brown eyes, and a smattering of moles, the woman was almost a female version of Stiles.

When they got the news that the insemination had been successful on the first try, Stiles had laughed as he accused Peter of strutting. Peter hadn’t bothered to deny it, too busy feeling proud of himself. And for all his teasing, Stiles was the one who took Peter’s soft cock in his hand that night as he whispered solemnly, ”You did good, little Peter,” while Peter snickered at the ridiculous sight.

Stiles had suggested asking Lorna to move in with them, but Peter had nixed that idea from the start. He was self aware enough to know that if they did that, he’d just spend the entire pregnancy being a hovering, paranoid, overprotective pain in the ass, and Stiles would probably leave and take the baby with him, and Peter wouldn’t  blame him in the least.  Besides, Lorna had her own life to live – she was already giving them this, it wasn’t fair to ask her to relocate as well.

Instead they flew out every month to spend time with their baby mama, and she just smiled indulgently as Peter fussed and fretted over her every move, and assured him that she didn’t mind, she knew how wolves get. Not that Stiles was much better – he could spend hours with his hand on her belly, feeling the baby moving and talking to it.

* * *

 

 

The closest they came to disagreeing throughout the entire process was when it came to choosing a name.  When they found out it was a boy, Peter had tabled a list of names, and Stiles had screwed up his nose at all of them. “They’re so plain,” he’d complained. “Seriously, this is like the most middle-class, white-bread list of names I’ve ever seen. I mean, I don’t wanna give the kid a name like mine, but can’t we have something with some style?”

“These names are fine.”

Stiles had peered at the list. “David? Matthew? These are all just - dull. What about…Harper? Or Arizona? Oooh, how do you feel about Ripley?”

“Stiles, we’re not giving our child an odd name.” Peter had been firm, and Stiles had pouted.

“Just because all your family’s names came from the Big Book of Boring, doesn’t ours should do the same,” he’d muttered. Stiles had that set to his jaw that meant he was going to be a dick about this, Peter could tell.

He’d thought maybe Stiles would figure out the reasoning, but Stiles was too caught up in wanting his own way to think it through, and Peter had known then that he was going to have to spell this out. “Sweetheart, has it occurred to you that there’s a reason my family’s names are all...” Peter bit down on the word _boring,_ “…unremarkable?”

“Because you want your kids to grow up to be accountants?” Stiles had replied with an eyeroll. Gods, he could be a wilful little shit.

Peter had been irrationally insulted on his family’s behalf. “Or could it _possibly_ be that drawing unwanted attention to a child who’s a werewolf is a bad idea?” he’d snapped.

Stiles had stopped short at that. “Wait, what?’

Peter had huffed out,“The _last_ thing you want, when you’re a Were, is to stand out. And Werewolf children don’t always have full control. Sometimes there’s a stray fang, an odd growl. So we take care not to be noticed. Derek Hale? Boring name, boring kid.  But Moonbeam or Avocado Hale? People ask questions. _What’s with that kid? He seems weird. I heard a rumor that sometimes he growls if you piss him off._  People tend to take notice. “

Peter could literally see the moment Stiles got it. “Oh,” he said in a small voice.  “I didn’t think.”

Peter’s annoyance ebbed away. “It’s all about flying under the radar, sweetheart.”

“You keep it dull because it keeps you safe.”

“It keeps us safe,” Peter had agreed, breathing easier.

Stiles had promptly plopped himself in Peter’s lap and wrapped himself around him, apologizing for being an asshole. Then he’d offered to take Peter to bed to make up for it, and well, Peter wasn’t going to say no to that.

Afterwards, cuddled up together in bed, Stiles had told Peter to pick a name, something nice and safe and forgettable, and he’d go with it.

Peter had picked a name, and Stiles had nodded his agreement. "It's nice. It's definitely better than Avocado."

 

* * *

 

The nine months had both flown by and dragged interminably. Every few weeks would bring a new photo of Lorna’s growing belly, another ultrasound, another doctor’s report, until the pinup board in Peter’s office was covered in them. Peter’s held off on framing the report saying it was a boy, but only because he didn’t want to tempt fate.

He and Stiles would catch each other’s gaze every so often when they were cooing over the ultrasounds, and the look said it all. _This is really happening._

And now, it’s finally baby day.

They fly into LA the day before. Stiles spends half the night pacing, worrying if they’re really ready for this. Finally, Peter wraps strong arms around him and just holds him till his heart stops racing. “Stiles, trust me. We managed to take care of Emily on a wing and a prayer, and we’re actually ready this time around. It’ll be fine. You need to get some rest - tomorrow’s a big day.”

Stiles sags against him, even as he grumbles “How am I meant to sleep? I’m freaking out here!” Peter just laughs, lifting Stiles off the ground and swinging him around gleefully.  They’re having a baby, and yes, it’s terrifying, but also, _they’re having a baby of their very own._

He puts Stiles down and whispers in his ear, “You know what’s a great stress reliever?”

Stiles turns in his arms, the worried frown on his face replaced by an expectant smile. “Why do I feel like you’re not going to say yoga right now?”

Peter presses their bodies close. “Because I’m not going to say yoga. Although you are wonderfully limber, and I’ll definitely be bending you in half.” He leans in for a kiss.

Stiles kisses him back as he shuffle-walks them over to the bed. “This what you had in mind?”

“Mmm.” Peter hums in agreement. “If I tire you out, maybe you’ll stop panicking and sleep.”

Stiles shoves Peter gently backwards onto the bed and straddles him, grinning wickedly. “I’m okay with this plan.”

It turns out that by the time Peter’s done with him, Stiles _can_ sleep after all.

* * *

 

As soon as the baby’s born, they hand him to his mother, but she only holds him against her chest for a minute or two before offering him to Peter with a smile. Peter takes the child eagerly, Stiles leaning over his shoulder as they both stare at him, entranced.

The delivery took place in a private clinic, and nobody seems fazed when the incision begins to heal within minutes, which makes sense – they chose this place specifically because it has a whole wing that's discreetly geared towards supernaturals. Not that Peter gives it much thought, because he’s too busy taking in the sight of his son – _his son!-_   squirming in his arms. Peter pulls him close, and the feel of hot, quick breaths against the side of his neck is overwhelming.

A nurse taps him on the shoulder. “Take off your shirt, skin to skin is best,” she advises, and yes, of course, how did Peter forget that? He hands the baby to her as he peels out of his v neck, and when he takes the child back he feels the warmth and weight of the child against his chest and the tiny tendrils of a new pack bond forming, the tingling in his chest a gentle tug linking him to his son. He closes his eyes in sheer contentment, can’t hold back the happy sigh that escapes him. Their son makes a similar sound, and Peter starts to rock instinctively.

He could stay like this for hours, except when he opens his eyes minutes later, he sees the way Stiles is watching him, sees the need written there, and he suddenly wants to share this, that perfect feeling of holding a newborn. “Take your shirt off, sweetheart.”

Stiles’s eyes widen, and he gets a goofy grin on his face as he shucks out of his tee. Peter hands the baby over, and all signs of Stiles’s earlier nervousness are gone as he takes the baby, strong, sure hands supporting the infant’s back. It looks good, it looks _right,_ Stiles holding their son, cradling him in the crook of his arm. Peter can feel himself tearing up at the sight, and he lets out a wet laugh as he says, “Like a duck to water, sweetheart.”

“Oh my god, he’s so tiny,” Stiles breathes out, face wreathed in smiles. “He looks like you.”

He’s not wrong – this is a Hale baby through and through, with thick dark hair, well defined features, and a cleverness to his gaze that doesn’t belong on one so young. Peter pulls his chair close to Stiles’s so he can stare some more, running his hand over the baby’s head and scenting his son. They stay like that for a while, passing that baby back and forth carefully,  both crooning nonsense at him, unable to help themselves.  When the baby starts to grizzle,  the nurse appears with her hands out. “We need to take him and clean him up, then I promise you can have him back,” she says, almost apologetic.

Peter watches, amused, as Stiles pouts when he has to hand the baby over. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “We get to take him home, and then you can hold him all you want.”

Stiles turns to Peter. ”We have a son,” he says, like it’s a surprise, like he isn’t the one who made this happen in the first place. Then Stiles gets up and goes over to the bed, wraps his arms around Lorna’s neck in a hug, like he’s done so many times since she agreed to help them. “Thank you,” he whispers. “You don’t know what this means.”

She squeezes Stiles back, smiling warmly. “I think I do.”

“Seriously,” Peter can’t help but add. “If there’s anything we can do for you, ever, anything at all. We’re forever in your debt.”  Peter knows Lorna’s been paid handsomely for her efforts, in fact he gave her far more than they agreed upon, but he also knows that it will never ever, be enough.

She extracts herself from Stiles’s grip and turns to face Peter. “What happened to your pack was a tragedy. I remember my parents were devastated when they heard. And I always felt so bad for you. So when Alan called me about being a surrogate, how could I say no?” She lets out a small laugh. “Plus, I may have had a crush on you when we were teenagers. You were cute.”

There’s a moment of silence, then Stiles snorts out a laugh. “Aaaw, were you a cutie, Peter?”

“I was very cute. Whereas now, I’m devastatingly handsome.” Peter’s grinning as he says it, brimming with happiness.

They’re distracted by the nurse returning with the baby, now clean and dressed and wearing a blue beanie. Peter sees Stiles’s fingers twitch with the desire to take the baby, but he nods at Peter, and Peter doesn’t argue. He takes the baby and the bottle the nurse is holding out, and watches raptly as the baby mouths around the teat, searching, before finally figuring it out and starting to drink.  

“What are you calling him?” the nurse asks.

“Daniel. Daniel John.”

“That’s a nice name. Very traditional,” the nurse comments, and Stiles and Peter share a smile.

 

* * *

  


 

They fly home three days later, when the baby’s cleared to travel. Peter shows off his son proudly, accepting the compliments and comments as Stiles just beams at the other passengers. Daniel sleeps through the whole thing, only waking when they land.  

The sheriff picks them up at the airport in Peter’s car, and he wastes no time in getting his hands on his grandson. “Well I’ll be damned,” he says quietly, and in that moment, grinning from ear to ear, he looks _exactly_ like Stiles. It’s only when Stiles nudges him that he seems to break free of his trance and says, “Let’s get you boys home.” 

He drops them off but doesn’t stay, telling them he’ll come by tomorrow when they’re settled.  He hugs them both, steals one last cuddle from the baby, and then they’re alone. Stiles visibly slumps. It’s understandable – they’ve barely slept, either of them, too caught up in the novelty of soft skin and sleepy smiles and Daniel’s whole existence. He leans on Peter’s shoulder, the one not occupied by a baby. “I know it’s only eight o’clock, but can we please go to bed?”

“Oh god, yes.” Peter hands the infant off to Stiles. “Do you want to feed him while I shower, and then we’ll switch?”

Stiles grins. “Just like old times, huh.”

Peter laughs softly, kisses the baby on the forehead and heads into the bathroom. After his shower, he settles into their bed shirtless and snugs his son up against his chest, breathing in deeply, savoring the unique smell of newborn. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough. It’s not long before Stiles joins him, also shirtless, resting one hand on Daniel’s back, causing the baby to burble contentedly.

Peter leans over and flicks off the bedside lamp, and for long minutes there’s nothing but silence and the sound of the three of them breathing. Then Stiles’s voice breaks through the darkness. ”Oh my god. I didn’t think this through. We’re never going to have sex again, are we?”

Peter feels the weight of Stiles’s hand resting against their son’s back, places his own on top. “Not anytime soon, sweetheart,” he chuckles softly. “Do you really mind?”

Stiles entwines their fingers. “Nah. This is worth it.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um, maybe this got too long and there's three chapters now. Oops?

 

They get two days to themselves before John turns up and declares he’s invoking his Grandparental Rights.

He walks in the door and holds his arms out expectantly, making an impatient beckoning motion when Peter doesn’t hand the baby over right away. _Like father, like son_ , Peter thinks. John holds the baby expertly against his shoulder, peers at Peter critically, and says, “You look like hell.”

Peter lets out a shaky laugh. “I won’t lie. He’s wonderful, but neither of us have gotten more than an hour’s sleep at a time. It’s Stiles’s turn to nap right now.”

John settles himself in the rocker and tilts his head towards the bedroom. “You wanna go lay down as well? I’m free for the day, I can take care of this little man.” He settles the baby in his lap, and Dan opens one eye and gurgles at him happily. “Yeah, little man? Gonna be good for your Poppa?” he croons.

Peter wavers for a moment. “He might not settle. He needs the smell of us…”

John just rolls his eyes. “Then hand over your damn shirt and I’ll wrap him in that, genius.”

The fact that he hadn’t thought of that himself is enough to convince Peter to take John up on his offer. He strips off his shirt and hands it over, and Dan’s face scrunches up adorably at the scent when he’s swaddled in it. Peter stands there for a moment just watching, until John shoos him. As he’s leaving the room, John says, ”And Peter?”

“Mmm?” Peter half turns in the doorway.

“When I say sleep, I do mean _sleep._ Don’t let Stiles convince you otherwise.”

Peter snorts. “Nobody in this house has that kind of energy, John.”

John gives him a crooked grin. “I remember. Stiles was a lousy sleeper. Kid was the best contraceptive ever.”

And then he starts humming some old country song under his breath as he rocks the baby slowly, back and forth, and Dan makes the noises that Peter knows mean he’s settling. Peter leaves them to it and slides into bed behind a sleeping Stiles, letting out a sigh of relief. Stiles stirs just enough to mutter out some kind of question. “Wh’bab?”

“Grandpa,” Peter whispers, before wrapping his arm around Stiles’s waist and passing out for three straight hours.

It’s bliss.

Later, after John leaves, Stiles has the baby snug against his bare chest in a sling when he asks, “Hey, how come Dan doesn’t, like, pine for your werewolf scent as much as Emmy did? She definitely preferred you to me, but our boy doesn’t seem to notice.”

Peter takes a moment to revel in the words _our boy_ before he answers. “I’m surprised you need to ask, sweetheart. You and I have practically marinated in each other for the last year and a half – I doubt he can tell where one of us ends and the other begins, to be honest. All he knows is we smell like pack.”

 “We smell the same?” Stiles sounds skeptical.

“Absolutely,” Peter assures him. “You’re drenched in Eau de Wolf, inside and out.”

“Huh.” Peter sees a small, pleased smile creep onto Stiles’ face.

Peter doesn’t call him on it when, later that day, he sees Stiles surreptitiously sniffing himself and grinning.

 

* * *

 

 

John turns up the next day and announces he’s taken a week’s leave for a ‘family situation.’ He comes over every day to babysit for a few hours - just, he says, till they find their sea legs. Peter would be insulted, except he’s too busy sleeping.

It works. John gets to play with his adorable grandson, and Peter and Stiles get to sleep and shower and eat a meal while it’s still hot, instead of taking turns to gulp down a sandwich or a protein shake. It gives Peter and Stiles some breathing space they didn’t know they needed. At the end of the week, John declares it simultaneously the most exhausting and best vacation he’s had in years, and tells them they can call him if they need him, anytime.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles had the bright idea, after swaddling Dan in Peter’s shirt for his dad, that maybe, sometimes they could wrap him up in their clothes and he could go to bed on his own, and they could have their hands free for a little while. It works a treat, except for one thing.

Dan’s noisy.

He’s not _loud_ , per se, but he’s never quiet, either. He snuffles and snorts and whines, even in his sleep. And when he’s awake lets out a constant stream of happy sounds.  It’s cute as hell, but it also means they’re constantly checking on him, which sort of defeats the purpose. Stiles watches the sleeping, squirming infant, biting his lip, and Peter can almost _see_ the wheels turning. “Background noise,” Stiles declares, finally.

Peter tilts his head and makes a _go on_ gesture.

“We need background noise so we don’t keep running to check on Mumble here. And it’ll probably help him sleep, too.”

“Mumble?”

Stiles shrugs. “Our kid mumbles. So, Mumble.”  He pulls out his phone and starts up an ambient noise app, streaming it through the speakers they have in the bedroom. It’s apparently ‘forest noises’ and something about it sets Peter’s teeth on edge. The baby’s not a fan either, because his eyes snap open and he starts up a loud wail.

Stiles scrambles to turn it off and Dan stops crying immediately. “Okay, so not that.”

Peter rolls his eyes and picks up the baby, (“ _not Mumble, not Mumble,”_ he repeats to himself, knowing it’s a lost cause already) and holds him close to his chest. “It’s a good concept. Just not any of that artificial noise. It upsets the wolf, don’t ask me why. Maybe music?”

Stiles brightens at that, and starts scrolling through a selection of tunes.

Mumble doesn’t like classical. He’s apparently not a fan of folk music. He _definitely_ doesn’t like country (much to Peter’s relief.) Stiles has tried a dozen times and the baby hasn’t reacted well to anything, so he sighs and sets his phone down. “I guess background noise is a bust.”

Peter looks down at where his son has a cheek pressed against his bare chest, and sees his chubby fist tightening and loosening in time with Peter’s heartbeat. He smiles to himself. “Let me pick.”

Stiles hands over the phone, and it only takes Peter a second to find what he’s looking for. He sets the volume low, but the tune’s still instantly recognizable, and Stiles stares at him in disbelief as the familiar sounds pour out of the speakers.

Stomp Stomp _Clap_

Stomp Stomp _Clap_

Stomp Stomp _Clap_

Stomp Stomp _Clap_

Mumble lets out a happy trill.

Peter grins in triumph and hums along to Freddie telling him _Buddy, you're a boy, make a big noise, playing in the street, gonna be a big man someday,_ swaying his hips as the baby gurgles happily.

“Seems our son has a taste for the classics,” Peter says, and Dan burbles his agreement.

“What – how – Jesus, this kid.” Stiles throws his hands up in surrender.

“It’s the steady beat that he likes.” Peter taps out the rhythm against Mumble's _(dammit!)_ padded butt.

“I guess that makes sense.” Stiles is still shaking his head, amused.

“That, and any child of ours is going to have flawless taste,” Peter adds, pressing a kiss to the top of Mumble’s _(shit, the names’ stuck)_ head.

“Just like his parents,” Stiles observes, wrapping his arms around Peter’s waist from behind and resting his head on Peter’s shoulder. Peter leans back into the touch, enjoying it while he can – there’s been precious little time for each other, these past few weeks. Stiles kisses the back of his neck. “Look at us, parenting like a boss,“ he marvels.

“Mmmm.” Peter wonders if maybe they can put the baby down and sneak off to shower together, perhaps sneak in a quick hand job. It’s been weeks.

As if he has some instinct for these things, Dan picks that exact moment to grunt and strain and fill his diaper, letting out a dismayed squawk at the sensation.

Peter sighs. Maybe not.

 

* * *

 

 

Before they know it, Mumble’s two months old. (Peter’s had to accept that this is his son’s name now, apparently.) Stiles is back working at the library, and Peter looks after the baby while working from home. He translates foreign manuscripts, something he can easily do with his son in a sling, although once or twice his mind has wandered and he’s had to go back and delete the Greek version of “I’m just a poor boy, nobody loves me.”  

John comes over twice a week like clockwork to visit. He normally brings them dinner and stays for the evening, cooing and fussing over his grandson. Mumble recognizes him now, and the first time he gives John a real smile, John’s eyes get suspiciously damp, even as he crows about the fact.

They’re all getting almost enough sleep, and everything’s almost as it should be.

Almost.

There’s still the tiny matter of sex. Or rather, the lack of.

Stiles, it turns out, is a giant prude when it comes to intimacy anywhere in the vicinity of their son. The first time Peter had suggested in a low whisper that the baby was sleeping, did Stiles want to get busy, Stiles had scooted back to his side of the bed, scandalized. “Peter! There’s a child _right here!_ ” he’d gasped out. Peter was pretty sure if Stiles had pearls, he’d have been clutching them.

“I was only suggesting a little something, sweetheart. It’s been so long,” he cooed, hoping against hope.

Stiles had shaken his head. “We can’t. What if he wakes?”

As if on cue, Mumble had opened his mouth and started to emit the low, steady drone that meant he was hungry. He sounded just like an air raid siren when he wanted to be fed, and it was impossible to mistake for anything else but a demand for food, _now_ please.

Peter had sighed, climbed out of bed, and done feeding duty. Afterwards, when the baby was back in bed, he’d taken a detour to the bathroom and jerked off, still sulking slightly.

He’s only suggested it once since, and been met with the same reaction. “I can’t. I won’t enjoy it – I’ll spend the whole time waiting for him to ruin it,” Stiles had explained, looking miserable. “Maybe when he’s older.”

Peter had taken in his slumped shoulders and pulled him in for a hug. “It’s fine, sweetheart. It’s temporary.”

But that was a month ago, and Peter’s starting to doubt the truth of those words. He knows Stiles is probably as desperate as he is by now, just as sick of getting himself off in the shower, but Peter’s decided that he won’t bring it up again, will let Stiles set the pace.

Watching his husband right now though, Peter can feel his resolve crumbling.

They’ve been out getting groceries, and Stiles as always, is flushed and happy from a Saturday morning spent fielding compliments on how lovely their son is as they work their way around the store. Shopping with Dan takes an age, but Stiles still insists they all go together.  He’s the proudest dad ever to dad – apart from Peter, and even then it’s a close run thing. He loves to show off their child, revels in the praise.

They’ve made it home, and Peter’s putting away the frozen stuff while Stiles dances with the baby and sings along tunelessly to one of the songs that makes up the soundtrack to their life now – all stuff with a good strong beat, a range of boppy pop tunes and old school classics. (Mumble likes AC/DC almost as much as Queen.)

When Peter looks up, he’s greeted with the sight of Stiles’s ass rocking and swaying as he holds Mumble up in both arms, singing “ _Love shack, baby love shack!”_ and it awakens a need, deep in Peter’s belly.  It doesn’t help that Stiles is popping his hip out to the side with each _shack,_ then swivelling his hips in time to the music. It’s the worst kind of torture.

Stiles sings on, oblivious.  _“Bang bang, bang, on the door baby, bang baaang,”_ he warbles, and that fucking hip pop will be the death of Peter. He’s stares hypnotized by the movement of the pert ass in front of him, unable to look away, only able to imagine it under his hands, firm and lean and gorgeous. He’s dragged out of his spellbound state by a cry of _“Tiiiiin roof. Rusting!”_ as Stiles stands stock still, legs wide and baby held aloft.

Peter slams the freezer door and pulls out his phone.

“John, any chance you’d like to babysit for a couple of hours?”

“Well hello to you too,” John chuckles. “You boys need a break?”

“Desperately.” Peter tries his best to keep the growl from his voice, but he’s not sure he succeeds, and John must pick up on his tone.

“I’m guessing you’re bringing him here so you can get some quality, uh, _sleep?_ ”

“Exactly. I’ll be right over.” Peter hangs up and finds Stiles watching him with a grin.

“Any reason Mumble’s going to Pop’s place?” he asks, eyes sparkling with amusement.

Peter steps close. “Maybe. A man has his limits, and apparently mine is the sight of you shaking your stuff to the B52s. Any objections?”

Stiles kisses him on the cheek, still grinning. “Nope. I’ll get the bottles, you pack the bag.”

It takes them seventeen minutes to drop the baby off with grandpa and get home again.

It takes one and a half minutes for Stiles to get naked and for Peter to get his mouth around his cock. It takes thirty seconds for Stiles to come with a shout. They’re both skin hungry and desperate, and it takes another three hours before they’re finally sated. When they manage to drag themselves out of bed and go pick the baby up, John takes in the flushed cheeks, the mussed hair, and says, “You know, I’ve been thinking. Maybe you could drop him off a couple of times a week for a few hours. It’ll be good for him, get him used to being out of the house.”

Stiles nods like a bobblehead. “Definitely good for him. All the baby books say so. That’d be great.”

Peter just smiles quietly, and makes a mental note to make sure John gets something really good for Christmas this year.

 

* * *

 

 

“It’s bullshit and I don’t see why we have to hurt him,” Stiles argues, chin jutting out. “He doesn’t even need it!”

Peter sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s not like he wasn’t expecting this, but it’s still exhausting. “We’ve been over this, sweetheart. You know why.”

“But it’s not fair! Can’t we just pretend we’re anti vaxxers? I could totally play the part of an alternative lifestyle parent.”

He could, too, and Peter knows it. Stiles would make an excellent crusader. he'd probably convert people. “Maybe,” Peter concedes. “But could you keep it up for eighteen years? Or would you end up grabbing the first person who actually agrees with you and forcing them to read the science?”

Stiles’s shoulders sag. “Point. It’s still not fair, though.”

“I know. But he needs to be vaccinated, or people will ask questions. _Avocado Hale’s never had his needles, but have you noticed he never gets sick, either?_ “ he mimics in a falsetto. “The last thing we want it to draw that kind of attention.”

Stiles frowns. “I guess.”

“So I’ll schedule the doctors appointment for next week.” He takes in Stiles’s dejected expression and nudges him. “Cheer up. I’ll take any pain, make sure he doesn’t feel a thing. And you did get your own way on the other thing, after all.”

Stiles brightens at that. “Yeah, I did. I’m glad you didn’t want to cut part of him off unnecessarily either. Did you know I once wrote a ten-page essay on the history of circumcision? It started off as a religious practice, there’s really no solid evidence to support it…” and he’s off, spouting facts and figures, rambling happily as Peter listens and nods and makes appropriate noises, letting himself be soothed by his husbands voice, secure in the fact that Stiles will always, ultimately, want what’s best for them both.

 

* * *

 

Stiles is thrilled when Mumble cuts his first tooth at four months, but not as excited as Peter is when the next full moon, he sprouts tiny fangs and his claws pop out.  It does mean that Stiles nopes out of all childcare for a few days until they stop appearing randomly, saying, “No offense to our kid Peter, but I don’t wanna get skewered again,” after the first time Mumble swipes at his forearm and leaves a series of red lines.

Peter’s okay with it, actually. The full moon means his protective streak towards his son is dialed up high, and he’s happy to keep him close, not bothered by the odd scrape of claw against skin. Stiles confesses that he knows its not logical, but he’s worried he could get turned if the scratches are deep enough, and he doesn’t want that.

“Mumble’s not an Alpha, sweetheart,” Peter reminds him.

“He could be. He could be a true Alpha, you never know. He’s pretty amazing,” Stiles argues.

“Are you a true Alpha, baby? Are you wonderful and magical?” Peter croons, nuzzling the crook of Mumble’s neck. 

The baby responds by farting loudly. Peter takes it as a no. He doesn’t care much. His son might not be a true Alpha, but Peter has to agree with Stiles - he’s amazing anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

Derek comes to visit. He’s been tied up with he and Cora’s new pack in South America, but he’s skyped, and they’ve sent him photos, so he’s _sort_ of met his cousin. He still looks awestruck when Peter hands the six-month-old over to him, though.

“Oh my god Peter, he’s just like you.”

Mumble chews on a fat fist and looks up at Derek appraisingly, before giving him a smile. Derek flashes his Alpha red eyes, and Mumble flashes his back with a happy squeal. Derek’s face breaks into a wide smile. “Hey, pup. Are you a good boy?”

“He’s the best boy,” Stiles says firmly, like the proud papa that he is.

Derek settles him self in the rocker and bounces the baby on his knee. Mumble giggles happily, and Derek bounces him a little higher. Soon he’s swooping the baby over his head and Mumble’s shrieking with glee. “Just be careful –“ Peter starts to say, but a sharp elbow in the ribs from Stiles silences him.

Peter raises an eyebrow at Stiles, who’s grinning wildly, and then its too late anyway, because the lunch of pureed apples that the baby had barely finished makes a reappearance right on schedule. Stiles cackles wildly at the betrayed look on Derek’s face, and Peter struggles to hold back a snicker.

“Man, that was golden,” Stiles crows, even as he hands Derek a damp washcloth. “Rookie mistake!”

“Dammit,” Derek mutters under his breath, wiping apples and curdled milk out of his ears. “So mature, Stiles.”

Stiles shrugs. “I wasn’t the one who swung him around like that. Besides, when you have kids, you gotta take what entertainment you can get.”

Peter rolls his eyes, and takes the baby. “Apologies, Derek. Apparently there are _two_ children in this household.”

Once Derek’s safely out of the room cleaning himself up though, he leans in and whispers to Stiles, “You’re right, sweetheart. That _was_ golden.”

 

Derek stays for a week. The baby adores him, and it seems to go both ways – Stiles and Peter barely get to hold their son the whole time, unless he’s fussy or needs a diaper change, in which case Derek hands him off with a firm “nope.”

When Derek leaves, he hesitates to hand the baby over, and promises that he won’t wait so long before he visits, kissing the top of Mumble’s head affectionately. The baby babbles out his agreement and tries to shove one of his chubby fingers up Derek’s nose. Stiles cackles and takes a picture, because he claims that Derek smiling, even with a baby’s hand jammed up his nostril, is a rare event and needs to be captured for posterity, okay?

They wave him goodbye, Peter wrapping an arm around his husband. He’s suddenly overcome with a wave of gratitude. He never thought he’d get to be as happy as he is, but it seems that the gods are smiling on him, and he can’t wait to see what comes next.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lil bit of hurt snuck in, but I promise its all okay in the end!

When Mumble’s eight months old, Peter wakes one morning to the sound of Mumble growling softly in his sleep and Stiles moaning in pain. “Baby? You okay?”

“Head,” Stiles whimpers. Peter reaches a hand out and places it on his husband, closing his eyes and pulling the pain. He’s shocked at the intensity of it. Stiles lets out a groan, but it sounds like it’s mostly relief.

Peter props himself carefully on one elbow, and peers across. Stiles is still deathly pale. “Do you need to see a doctor?”

Stiles moves his head slightly from side to side. “Just a headache. Baby was up a lot last night, didn’t sleep.”

Peter’s not convinced, but Dan’s woken and is making his air raid siren noise, so Peter scoops him up and takes him for his breakfast, and leaves Stiles to sleep.  By the time the baby’s fed and bathed and dressed, Stiles is out like a light. Peter lays a hand on his forehead, but he’s not feverish, so he leaves him to it. When Stiles shuffles out of bed four hours later, he seems brighter, and says he feels much better, so Peter chalks it up to tiredness. Stiles is certainly well enough that night for their date night, so Peter doesn’t worry.

When two weeks later Stiles is hit with another crippling headache, he waves it off as nothing, claiming it’s because he sat up till 3 am gaming and drank one too many red bulls, and it isn’t anything he hasn’t done in the past, so Peter believes him. He supposes it’s part of being human, though he can only imagine how inconvenient it must be.

The next time Stiles can't get out of bed, well, it's understandable. Scott was in town for a few days, and he and Stiles hit the bars _hard._ "I'm seriously getting too old for this shit," Stiles grumbles, once he's stopped throwing up.

The hangover lingers for a full day and a half.

The blurred vision’s a concern, but when Stiles goes to the optometrist the results come back fine, and the man tells him he probably just needs to cut down his screen time. Stiles has been spending a lot of time researching when they can expect Mumble to start walking lately, so he promises to dial it back, and it seems to help.

So when Peter gets invited to an out of town conference by his publisher and Stiles tells him he should go, he doesn’t think twice about it. It’s only four days, after all, and the baby pretty much sleeps through the night, and Stiles promises to call John if it gets too much.  Peter packs his bag and catches his flight, and if Stiles looks a little ragged around the edges when he sees Peter off, Peter supposes that’s normal for the parent of an active werewolf baby who’s just learning the art of climbing.

“See you next week. Love you,” Peter says, bussing a kiss over Stiles’s and Mumble’s foreheads.

“Love you too. Travel safe,” Stiles says with a smile.

The next time Peter sees him, he’s in a hospital bed.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter gets the call from John two days after he leaves. He’s in the middle of a panel about the evolution of the classical languages, but when he sees who it is he sneaks out the door to answer, in case it’s urgent.

It is.

“ _What the hell_ were you thinking, leaving Stiles on his own when he’s sick? Get back here _now!_ ” John barks.

“What? Stiles isn’t sick,” Peter protests. “He was fine when I left, just tired.”

“Well, _just tired_ turned out to be something else. I dropped by to see how he was doing, and found him puking his guts up. He can’t stop shaking, and I’m taking him to the ER. Get your ass on a plane.”

Peter’s blood runs cold. “I’m leaving now. I’ll text you when I have a flight.” He ends the call and heads straight for his hotel room, thoughts whirling. Stiles never said anything about feeling unwell when Peter called him last night, but now Peter thinks about it, he had sounded slightly off. Maybe it’s flu. Peter’s heard that can hit suddenly.

He gets the first available flight home and gets a cab to the hospital. As soon as he arrives, John’s there, holding the baby and dragging Peter along by his elbow. John looks pale, shaken. “They don’t know what it is, they’re admitting him for tests,” he tells Peter quietly. Peter's worry ratchets up another few notches.

When they get to the door of Stiles’s room, he’s shocked. Stiles is _grey._ He has giant dark rings under his eyes, and the eyes themselves are bloodshot. “Oh, sweetheart, your eyes. What happened?” he croons, thrusting the baby at John and hurrying to Stiles’s side. His wolf whines at the sight of Stiles in distress.

“Puked so hard I burst the blood vessels,” Stiles tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite take, one side of his mouth drooping. His hands are shaking, Peter notes, and he can smell an acrid sourness rolling off Stiles in waves.

Peter clasps a hand around Stiles’s wrist and is unsurprised when his veins blacken instantly. “Stiles, how much pain are you in _really?_ And why didn’t you call me?”

Stiles gives a shrug. “It hit kinda sudden? And then I couldn’t – “ His composure drops away, and he lets out a weak sob. “I couldn’t dial the phone, okay? I forgot how.”

Peter feels all the breath leave his body at the admission. “What? Oh, sweetheart. This could be serious.”

Stiles takes a shaky breath and manages, _“Ya think?”_

Peter doesn’t see the funny side of it. He turns to John. “Can you keep Mumble for us?”

“Course,” John says gruffly.” Long as you need.” He clears his throat. “This is more than flu, Peter.”

“I know – “ Peter’s interrupted by a loud gasp from Stiles, and then every monitor in the room’s going crazy. When he turns back, Stiles is thrashing and twitching, his body spasming wildly. Peter locks his grip on Stiles’s shoulders, keeping him in place as he bellows _“Somebody help us!”_

Staff flood into the room and Peter’s pushed to one side as they shout medical jargon and descend on Stiles. The thrashing goes on for what feel likes years but is probably less that a minute, and then Stiles is still, eyes rolled back into his head. The baby’s started wailing in John’s arms, probably able to sense Peter’s distress, but Peter can’t deal with that right now. All his focus is on the pale, still body in the bed. “What the hell was that?” he demands, almost snarling.

Somebody needs to tell him what the hell’s going on, and they need to do it _now_. He feels the itch of fangs at his gums. If he’s feeling it Dan will be too. He glances over and is unsurprised to see John sheltering the baby’s face, keeping him from public view, and knows he’s right.

Peter closes his eyes and breathes deeply, before asking, in the calmest voice he can manage, ”Can somebody _please_ tell me what’s wrong with my husband?”

One of the doctors takes him by the arm and steers him away, out of the room. “We’re not sure, but we’d like to run some tests. It looks like a stroke, but with what just happened...”

Peter shakes his head. “Twenty four years olds don’t have strokes,” he argues.

The doctor folds his arms over his chest. “They do, but the seizure doesn't fit. That’s why we want to run the tests. We also want to do an MRI, to exclude other possibilities.”

Peter pushes his panic at the ominous phrase down. “Whatever you need,” he mutters. “And the – whatever that was?”

The doctor’s mouth tightens in an unhappy line. “As I say. Further tests.”

“How soon will you know?” Peter doesn’t even try to sugar coat his demands.

“As soon as we know, you’ll know. Fortunately, with your insurance, everything’s covered, so that speeds things up.”

 _Of course it does_ , Peter thinks. _Money talks._

He stalks back into the room, and nobody tries to stop him when he perches on the edge of the bed and takes Stiles’s limp hand between his. “Why isn’t he waking up?”

“He’s sedated. It’s normal,” one of the nurses hastens to reassure him, and Peter feels at least some measure of relief.

There’s a hand on his shoulder, and it’s John, holding a still sobbing infant. “I’m taking the kid home, okay? Thought you could use a Mumble hug before we go.” John voice is almost steady. “And you call me as soon as you hear anything.”

Peter stands and scoops his son into his arms, hugging him tight. It’s calming for them both, and Mumble’s crying tapers off as Peter shushes him, whispering, “You be good for Poppa, okay? There’s my boy.”

Mumble pats at the side of Peter’s face with chubby sausage fingers, and coos at him. The gentle touch is too much, and Peter almost breaks down. He blinks the tears away though, and hands his son over. He catches John’s gaze, and they share a moment of silent understanding.

“Right. Gonna go now,” John says gruffly.  Peter watches him leave, and settles next to Stiles’s bed to wait.

 

* * *

 

 

When Stiles wakes, Peter gets approximately three minutes with him before Stiles is whisked away to be poked and prodded and tested. Peter sits in the waiting room and tries not to think too hard.

At the back of his mind, of course, is Frontotemporal Dementia, but a quick google search tells him this isn’t that. He wants to search further, but he knows that way madness lies. He deliberately closes the search window and instead finds some mindless game to kill time. After a few minutes he opens the window again and googles, “How soon are MRI results available.” He breathes a little easier when he sees that in emergency room situations, it’s almost immediately.

It still feels like forever before the doctor comes to fetch him. “We have the results.”

Peter raises a brow in silent query.

“I’d prefer to tell you both at once,” the doctor says, and he can’t quite meet Peter’s eye.

Once they’re in Stiles’s room, the doctor faces them both. “So we ran some tests, and  -“

“Is it what my Mom had?” Stiles interrupts.

“No,” Peter and the doctor say in unison.

Stiles smirks, as well as he’s able. “Thank you, Doctor Hale.”

Something in Peter relaxes at that. If Stiles is still being a smartass, it can’t be that bad, surely?

Only the doctor’s not smiling, not even a little bit. He clears his throat. “We found a growth.”  He pauses before continuing, “A tumor. It’s in the brain.”

Stiles blinks rapidly, and Peter can see him digesting the news. ”So, you can just cut it out, right?”

The doctor doesn’t answer straight away. Even before he opens his mouth though, his racing heartbeat gives him away, and Peter knows what he’s going to say.

“Given the position, surgery’s not an option.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles remains silent, nodding while the doctor talks him through the possibilities, the need for a more accurate diagnosis, the options for chemotherapy, talks about how they can probably buy him several years, and glosses over the fact that he’ll get weaker, slower, sicker. Peter's heart breaks at Stiles's silent acceptance, and it occurs to him that Stiles has probably been expecting this his whole life. 

As soon as the doctor leaves though, Stiles turns to Peter with a gleam in his eye, all signs of sadness gone. “Fuck that shit. What I wanna know is, how the hell do we explain my  recovery when Derek bites me? I mean the bite _can_ cure this, right?”

Peter sags with relief. That had also been his first thought, but Stiles has  turned down the suggestion more than once, so Peter wasn’t sure he’d even consider it. “Of course it will,” he says, answering Stiles’s question. “Are you certain you want it though? You never have before.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I never really had to choose before. But it beats the hell out of dying, right?”

Peter stands and walks over to Stiles’s bed, sitting on the edge and wrapping one arm around Stiles’ back. He presses their foreheads together. “It beats the hell out of dying. And I don’t think I could stand to lose you, sweetheart,” he whispers.

Stiles’s voice is shaky. “Yeah, well. As long as the bite takes, you’re stuck with me.”

“It’ll take,” Peter assures him with a confidence he doesn’t feel.

 

* * *

 

 

Derek flies in two days later.

 

It takes.

 

* * *

 

 

They sit in the oncologist’s office together, straightfaced, as the doctor shakes his head. “I don’t know what to tell you. There’s nothing there.”  He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Most likely the original scan had some sort of shadowing on it, and the ER doctors overreacted. But it seems that we’re unable to track a copy down, some sort of record keeping glitch, so I can’t compare the two.”

Melissa McCall had been happy to help with that one. Peter makes a mental note to send her away somewhere nice for a week.

“But what you’re saying is Stiles _doesn’t_ have a brain tumour, ” Peter presses, playing the part of the concerned husband. “You’re absolutely certain?”

“He’s free and clear,” the doctor confirms.

“Well, I did do a two week raw juice cleanse,” Stiles offers helpfully. “Maybe it worked.”

Peter bites his tongue to hold back a snort. He spent an hour this morning convincing Stiles that no, he couldn’t claim he was on a prayer chain and that’s what cured him. Trust the little shit to think of something else.

His very own little shit, who’s going to be around for a long, long time.

 

* * *

 

 

Dan spent a week or two there getting passed from pillar to post, first while Stiles was in hospital, and then in the two weeks following Stiles being turned, while Peter and Derek worked to help him control his shift.

So when Mumble finally comes home from John’s, he throws himself into Stiles’s outstretched arms with a squeal. Stiles catches him easily, courtesy of his improved reflexes, bouncing him on his hip. “Hey baby! You miss me? Miss your daddy? You’ve grown!” Stiles flashes his eyes, and Mumble screeches excitedly and flashes his own . Then he buries his face in the crook of Stiles’s neck and refuses to move for the next four hours.

Stiles is the one left doing the weewee dance this time, and Peter leaves it to the last minute, then takes his own sweet time peeling Mumble out of Stiles’s arms, grinning evilly.

“You really are the best boy,” he whispers, as Stiles bolts for the bathroom while shouting out that Peter’s _such_ a dick.

* * *

 

 

Dan’s eleven months old when he takes his first tottery steps, a determined expression on his face. He makes it four whole paces before falling backwards and landing on his butt with a bump. Stiles swings him over his head, telling him how clever he is, while Peter films the whole thing.

Once he’s managed that, it’s only a week before their son’s making his way across the room, lurching from chairleg to chairleg like a tiny drunken pinball, muttering under his breath as he selects his next target. Peter watches on proudly. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he encourages under his breath.

Dan decides that Peter’s his next port of call, and staggers forward with his arms out, calling “ _DA!_ ”

Peter would be flattered, except that Dan calls him _Da_ , Stiles _Da_ , and his stuffed penguin Archie _Da_. Peter guesses that to Dan, they’re all equally important, although some days the penguin’s the clear winner. He and Stiles haven’t managed to decide what they want to be called, but Peter figures it’ll work itself out eventually. For now, they both use Dad or Daddy, as the fancy takes them. Personally, Peter’s happy with both, because he never really thought he’d get to be either.

 

* * *

 

 

A week after his first birthday, Dan won’t settle. He rolls and squirms and huffs, kicks his legs out, and slaps at Peter’s chest. Peter watches, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. He doesn’t say anything yet, because he’s not sure, but…

Dan lets out a frustrated cry, and pushes Peter away.

Peter’s smile widens. “Stiles,” he whispers, and nods at the way Dan’s edging his way down the bed.

“Is he -“

“He’s leaving the nest,” Peter confirms. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, picks up his son, and carries him through to his own room, where there’s been a bed waiting for him for a month now, ever since Peter noticed him getting more restless in his sleep.  He tucks Dan into his bed along with Archie the Penguin, and waits a minute to ensure he settles. Dan coos happily, clutches at the penguin, and his eyes flutter closed.

It wouldn’t be fair to say Peter _dances_ back to his own bed, but there’s definite spring in his step. He closes the bedroom door with a firm click and strips out of his pyjama pants before diving back into bed and starfishing dramatically.

Stiles is already way ahead of him, his boxers laying discarded on the floor. “Oh my god, privacy! You’re sure he’ll be alright?”

Peter pulls Stiles in for a filthy kiss before answering. “Certain. Once a cub decides they want their own space, it’s a done deal. It’s just you and me, sweetheart.”

“In that case, you know what I want to do?”

“Hmm, whatever could you want?” Peter muses, fairly certain he knows the answer.

Stiles drags Peter close. “I want to sleep next to you naked, and sleep all night, and _not_ have anyone wake me up poking a finger in my ear, that’s what I want.”

It’s not what Peter expected, but he laughs. “That sounds divine. Let’s do it.”

And they do.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, they hear Dan babbling away to Archie, and Stiles gives Peter a grin. “That’s the best sleep I’ve had in a year.”

Peter sits up and stretches. “Same. I could get used to it.”

Stiles’s eyes sparkle with mischief. “Since we’re so well rested, I have plans for tonight, and they don’t involve sleeping.”

“Oh, is that so? Tell me more.”

Stiles opens his mouth to reply, but just then Dan lets out a sharp cry, the one that means he’s getting cranky. Stiles rolls over and gets out of bed. “You’ll have to wait and see,” he teases. “Right now, his lordship requires me.”

All day, Stiles makes a point of touching Peter, scent marking him, running fingers over the back of his neck, stealing kisses at every opportunity. By the time Dan’s in bed for the night, Peter’s been half hard all day, and his whole body tingles with anticipation. He’s in bed stroking his cock to hardness before Stiles is even finished locking the front door. Stiles grins when he walks in, unzipping his jeans and stepping right out of them as he prowls towards the bed. “Damn, you’re pretty.”

“You’re not too bad yourself, sweetheart. Now, tell me about your plan,” Peter practically purrs as Stiles gets into bed, gloriously naked and available.

Stiles rolls Peter onto his back and straddles him, still enjoying his newfound strength. “The plan is that we make love all night long without being interrupted.”

“I like this plan.” Peter wraps his arms around Stiles’s shoulders and pulls him down, punctuating his next sentence with tiny kisses to his neck and collarbones.

“I would love”

_kiss_

“nothing better”

_kiss_

“than to take”

_kiss_

“our”

_kiss_

“time.”

_Kiss_

Stiles beams. “Exactly. We can go nice and slow. I could ride you how you like.” He rolls his hips, pressing down against Peter’s hard cock. Peter lets out a broken whimper –Stiles astride him, easing down onto his cock, going slow, is one of his favorite things. “I take it that’s a yes?” Stiles laughs, and grabs the lube.

They take it slower than they have in a long, long time, both aware that the night is theirs. Stiles inches his way down onto Peter's cock with a groan, then sets a leisurely pace, and it’s excruciatingly good. He rolls his hips and teases, brings Peter to the edge time and again, before stopping completely until Peter’s pleading with him to move. Peter loves it, revels in the way his need grows, only to be denied until the next time, building and building until it threatens to overwhelm him.

Finally, he can’t take it anymore. He grabs Stiles by the hips and holds him in place as he starts thrusting up desperately. Stiles takes the hint and goes with it, rides him hard and fast, and Peter knows that it’s good for Stiles as well, can tell by the filthy sounds coming from his mouth as he slams down, his thighs quivering with the strain of it.  It’s the sight of Stiles with his head thrown back and his mouth open in an O as he comes that tips Peter over the edge into an orgasm that’s dizzying in its intensity.

Peter’s still panting when Stiles slumps down against him, body heavy against his. Stiles lets out a tiny, satisfied sigh. “So good.”

“Mmm.” Peter runs his hands down Stiles’s naked back idly, tracing patterns there, dazed and floaty, already drifting towards sleep.

He’s almost there when Stiles rolls off to one side and props himself up on one elbow. “I think, maybe next time, we should look at one of those beds with an attachment on the side for the baby. We might get more sleep that way.”

Peter’s eyes snap open. _“Next time?”_ He turns to see Stiles biting his bottom lip, looking pensive.

“Well, yeah. Don’t you want more?”

Peter sits up, and tries to get his fucked out brain working again. “I – I assumed you only wanted one? You never said.”

Stiles sits up as well, a hopeful expression on his face. “Being an only child sucks, take it from me. So yeah, more. If you want. Not yet,” he hastens to add, “Because now we have our bed back I’m gonna need you to sex me up every night for at least a year before we even consider it.”

At that, Peter breathes easier. “Well in that case, I’d definitely like at least one more, in a year or two. But there’s no rush, right?”

“Oh, no rush at all,” Stiles agrees. “Except next time, I was hoping…” he goes quiet, and the silence stretches between them.

Peter cocks a brow – it’s not like Stiles to be shy about what he wants. ”Next time?” he prompts.

“Next time, since I’m a wolf now _…Icouldmaybebethebabydaddy_ ,” Stiles gets out in a rush.

Peter has to take a moment to reconstruct the sentence so it makes sense. “You want the next one to be yours?”  Stiles nods dumbly. Peter pulls him close and kisses his cheek, runs one finger softly along Stiles’s jaw. “Sweetheart, I think you’d make beautiful babies.”

Stiles’s face lights up at that. “Yeah?”

“Of course. They’ll be gorgeous, just like you.”

* * *

 

She is.

 


End file.
